


How Ironic

by Poiby



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Chapter from a different POV, Chapter rewrite, Hurt/Comfort, I mean no disrespect to Brenda I think she’s awesome, Jorge ships it, Kinda, Look it’s not THAT bad but just be careful if you’re sensitive to this kind of thing, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mild Angst, Newt (Maze Runner) Has a Crush, Non-Graphic Violence, Surgery, Thomas (Maze Runner) is a dork, idk how the fuck to tag this is my first time posting on AO3, make it a tag cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 18:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poiby/pseuds/Poiby
Summary: ~TST BOOK SPOILERS~That one chapter where Thomas is shot from Newt’s perspective.





	How Ironic

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: Newt worries/sulks for 2.5K
> 
> Okay so I haven’t read TST in several years and I don’t have access to a copy so if I butcher cannon by mistake I’m sorry.
> 
> This isn’t my best work but it’s one of my first and I wanted to post things in order
> 
> My abuse of conjunctions and commas because I can’t fit all my shit into nice little sentences is totally an artistic choice
> 
> Unbetad

Newt had been worried ever since the tunnel collapsed and Thomas ended up stuck with Brenda. He didn't trust the girl no matter how many times Jorge had reassured him that 'his boy' was in good hands. He just didn’t know her like he knew his fellow gladers. She hadn’t looked danger in the face with them yet, which was the fastest way to make close friends these days. She could be working with WICKED for all he knew and Thomas was stuck with her, wherever they were.

Newt pushed his worries away, people were relying on him. He was still second in command of the gladers and he needed to be there for Minho. Everyone seeing him down about Thomas would be bad for morale. Fear and worrying were not how you stayed alive. Neither was wondering about the past and what-ifs.

Oddly enough Thomas’ absence was noticed in the chain of command most. Newt hadn’t realised how much of a role he had started playing or when until Thomas wasn’t standing next to him. It made Newt’s attempts to forget about Thomas’ absence a lot harder whenever he and Minho paused, waiting for input on their newly formed plan and the only answer they were given was sand shifting and the deafening silence of the seemingly abandoned city.

If anyone else noticed, no one talked about it. Thomas had become a taboo topic between them all. Thinking about the past was how you got killed out here. Newt pushed it away, he needed to be everyone’s anchor.

Newt thought he was doing a pretty good job at not showing his fear as well as keeping it out of his mind. Everyone else was doing well too, except for the occasional slip-ups. But in the quiet grasp of night while his eyes grew heavy a niggling, sick little thought clung stubbornly to his subconscious. _What if Thomas is dead?_ He had refused to believe it. He couldn't believe it. If he believed it, it would mean the soul reason his hopeless existence had become full of light was gone. He couldn’t live without that light now that he had found it. So Newt would bury the thought under a landslide of false assurances as he stared up at the star-spangled sky. Every single night. It was habitual.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of a collapsing tunnel and a candle being blown out.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of eyes watching him from the shadows.

The feeling of foreboding slapped him across the face when he saw the plaque and Jorge told them all that it was why he had helped them. The thought came crashing through his mind. Upending the carefully schooled emotions and thoughts housed there. Newt glanced at Minho and saw his worries reflected. WICKED was up to something and Newt didn't like it.

They had found him. He was tied up and looking like death itself but he was alive and Newt could breathe again. The way Thomas slumped with relief when his eyes found Newt’s caused a grin to spread across his face. The quiet greeting and thanks whispered while he cut Thomas' bonds, the smile Thomas gave him as he rubbed feeling into his stiff limbs and the hand Thomas placed on his shoulder had Newt’s heart soaring. Thomas walking right past Brenda who had been freed by Minho when she tried to talk to him was just icing on the cake. But this wasn't the time. They'd have a proper reunion once they were out of danger.

Then it all came crashing down, as Newt knew he should have expected. A shout and then a gunshot pierced the air. Newt whirled around. Everything stopped. Thomas was kneeling on the ground, a hand pressed to his already bloody side. Newt couldn't breathe. Pure shock froze him to the ground. No one moved. Thomas slowly looked up to meet Newt's eyes. The world unfroze with a yell. Minho charged the asshole still clutching the pistol and Newt would have joined him if other matters weren't more pressing. Newt bolted towards Thomas and practically slid on the dirty asphalt to reach him sitting. He cupped Thomas' face with both shaking hands. Thomas looked up slowly. His eyes were glazed and unfocused.

"He shot me." Thomas murmured ever so peacefully. Then his eyes rolled and he slumped forward.

Newt's already panicking heart lurched as he reached out and caught him. His pulse now resembled a bird repeatedly bashing into a window. _No no no, not after everything_, played over and over in his head as Newt gently laid him down, his hand fumbling for Thomas’ wrist. As Minho's punches continued Newt felt his shoulders slump. A pulse beat against his thumb. Wasting no further time Newt pulled Thomas' shirt up. It wasn't a pretty sight. Blood poured from a penny-sized hole just under his ribcage. Running footsteps reached his ears and through a haze of desperation, Newt could see Jorge and Brenda's scared faces looking down at him.

"Here Hermano," Jorge said gently, "He'll be fine. Give me your shirt.

-

Thomas's face was pressed into the crook of Newt's neck as he walked. Newt could almost pretend he was giving Thomas a piggyback ride if it wasn’t for the way Thomas was slumped over him. _Play time’s over lads._ Had they ever had a playtime during their lives or was it always this miserable? His muscles were getting tired of carrying Thomas. Newt walked onward anyway. Minho was close by, along with the rest of their depressingly small group. Walking the burnt-out streets of a burnt-out world. They weren't far now from where they had made camp the night before.

Thomas shifted slightly and groaned. Newt’s heart tore. His zipped up jacket scratched at his bare chest and his bad leg throbbed. Newt walked onward anyway.

Thomas's head moved again and he muttered something in his not quite unconscious not quite conscious state. Half-formed thoughts tumbled out and became half-formed sentences. Quiet memories, small confessions and general nonsense. Newt hummed responses and reassurances as he felt the makeshift tourniquet Jorge had fashioned out of his shirt press against his back. His jacket slowly soaked up Thomas' blood. Newt walked onward anyway.

Minho offered to carry Thomas for him. Newt turned him down. Jorge offered to carry Thomas for him. Newt turned him down. Frypan offered to carry Thomas for him. Newt turned him down. Brenda sidled up to him and offered to carry Thomas for him with guilty eyes. Newt turned her down.

Thomas slurred out, "M’hurtsss." before he buried his nose in Newts neck again. Newt walked onward anyway.

-

Their camp was surprisingly good, or as good digs as you’d get at the end of the world.

The few kids that were still alive clustered around a fire in a rusted oil drum they had dragged back with them as day became night. They had stumbled upon a miraculously abandoned car junkyard in the outskirts of the nameless city. At least that’s what Newt assumed it was. For a good chunk of land, cars were parked closely together in a grid.

They looked like they’d have been old before hell decided it was bored stuck underground.

Most of the cars had already been broken into so everyone had spread out strategically and crashed in their own car. Newt’s was a green - it was hard to tell with how chipped and faded the paint was- Jeep that smelt like mothballs. He’d slept cradling his sheathed hunting knife like it was a teddy. This was a habit Newt didn’t know how to feel about. He soon realised that it was quite tame in comparison to Jorge’s quirk, sleeping with one eye open.

They all sat around a juncture between four cars somewhere in the middle of the lot. Minho was perched on the bonnet of a pretty blue car with rust creeping up its doors like vines.

Thomas was stretched out on the ground a little behind Newt. His bloody t-shirt had been removed and his bandaged chest was there for all to see.

The air was gloomy but relaxed. At least it was until Jorge stuck a knife in the fire.

"What are you doing?" Frypan asked while eyeing said knife.

"Preparing for a little surgery," Jorge replied, offhand.

"Hold on a second," Minho said as Newt stood from his crouched position. At the mention of surgery, everyone was jolted out of their misery induced stupor.

"Why is this necessary?" Newt snapped. He didn't want that knife, which had started to turn orange, anywhere near the boy behind him.

"The bullet is still in him Hermano," Jorge explained surprisingly patiently. "He’s got fool's luck that boy, it's a miracle none of his organs were hit. But if we don't take it out he will die. The wound needs to be cauterized. That tourniquet will cause problems if we leave it on for too long. If I do this now he might only have a scar and a few bruises."

"Don't we have any painkillers? A way to knock him out?" Newt asked somewhat desperately. Brenda, who was crouched beside Jorge, tried to meet his eye. Newt ignored her. Jorge just shook his head. Newt bit his lip. Minho slid off the bonnet to stand next to him. He glanced back at Thomas. His brow was furrowed and sweat poured down his face. Every now and then he'd let out a heart-stopping whine or whimper and Newt wished desperately for a way to take away his pain.

Jorge finished up with the knife and turned to him.

"I'm going to need you to hold him down."

-

Thomas's screaming matched the noise in Newt's head.

Newt sat by the fire feeling dirty. Every time his eyes closed he saw the look of terror on Thomas's face when the knife made contact with his flesh. _It was for the best, it had to happen_ he had told himself as he pinned down one of Thomas's arms. He kept telling himself that as Thomas passed out again afterwards - either from pain or overexertion - and had to be carried over to a nearby car to sleep. Brenda had hurried after before Newt could and so he hung back. Rations were wordlessly handed out. Newt refused to eat.

How ironic it was, all this time he had spent worrying over whether Thomas was alive and not 10 minutes after they had been reunited Thomas had been quite possibly mortally injured and now hung in the balance. There was nothing anyone could do now except wait. Minho had clapped his shoulder and told him things would be ok,

”I think the shank made a deal with the devil. He’s impossible to kill. He’ll pull through.”

Newt appreciated it.

He stayed next to the barrel. They had very little to burn and it was already dying. The soft glow of the embers rising from the bed of gentle fiery fingers was reflected in the metal skin of the car corpses. Newt had always related fire to Thomas, warm and persistent. He tried not to see this as an omen. One by one kids broke away and headed to their cars, promising to wake each other up for their shifts. Minho was the first to leave. If they were sad because of Thomas’ predicament or just trying to respect the waves of it coming off from Newt and those who had been closer to him he didn't know.

Frypan stayed with him and distracted him with some pleasant banter and bittersweet memories, Newt appreciated that too. Then Frypan had left and Newt returned to dwelling.His thoughts shifted back to Thomas. The fire was only smouldering now.

Newt got up and let the light of the waning moon guide him to the barely recognisable car Thomas had been placed in. There was no light from inside. Brenda was probably gone. Newt pulled the shotgun door side open with a sound like a griever being tortured. He flinched at the noise and the dust assaulting his nose. He slid into the seat, trying not to think about what could have happened on the warn leather and turned, looking into the back.

The windows were too dusty to let much light in. He had the feeling that there was something there but nothing from his vision to really back it up. Newt pulled the torch he’d taken out of his pack when they'd arrived from his pocket. He clicked it on with his hand partially covering the front. Scattered beams of light burst into existence from between his fingers. There was Thomas, stretched out on the bench. A particular shaft fell on an already drying rag draped on the armrest. Newt couldn't help but think that he should have been the one who did that.

Newt refocused on Thomas, this was not the time. He had been freshly bandaged and the blood had been mostly cleaned up, his face freshly washed. His eyes were closed and his hands had been neatly folded over his middle. If it wasn't for the slow rising of Thomas's chest Newt would have thought he was dead. He stood on his knees and gingerly climbed into the backseat, crouching in the footwell beside Thomas’ head. He put the torch in the door handle so it shone upward and hit the car roof.

Thomas’ lips were parted as puffs of air blew out. Newt couldn't help but think of all the times he had laid awake thinking about how much he wanted to touch those lips.

He refocused on Thomas's hair, this was not the time. Newt reached a hand out and gently combed it to the side and off his forehead. His hand lingered for a little longer than necessary. Newt basked in Thomas’ presence. He hadn't allowed himself to think about how much he missed feeling this boy near him.

He closed his eyes and pretended Thomas was asleep. He closed his eyes and pretended they were somewhere safe together. He closed his eyes and pretended the world was normal even though he didn’t know what normal was like.

He let himself grieve for Thomas. He let himself be angry, sad and frightened on his behalf. He let himself feel all the emotions Thomas couldn’t feel.

Newt wasn't sure how long he sat there in the dim light but it was long enough that his leg had started to cramp and he worried about using up his torches battery. He realized he should probably go.

"Please get better soon Tommy."

Newt felt comfort in speaking the nickname after so long. He touched Thomas’ forearm and moved to stand when a soft reedy whisper answered back.

"Newt."

Newt stared. Thomas' eyes remained closed and his mouth was still only slightly open. As Newt watched it happened again. Thomas' mouth opened just a tiny bit more and he let out another croaky call.

"Newt."

"I'm right here Tommy, I'll always be here."

Newt hoped he wasn't imagining the ghost of a smile that flickered across Thomas's features.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m constantly struggling with how British to make Newt. I live in the states with my mother most of the time which was when I first wrote this. Being with American people all the time makes writing British slang feel off and clunky so I try to make it more subtle. When I’m with my dad - who is Australian and works with several British people - it comes a lot easier. So if you see wild swinging from very British to not very British in my works that’s why.


End file.
